


i just come here for the view

by sandpapersnowman



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Belly Kink, Body Worship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Trip To The Pool, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Tumblr Prompt, briefly mentioned alcoholism, lowkey and brief relationship insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 05:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13897578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandpapersnowman/pseuds/sandpapersnowman
Summary: (5+1) Five times Holland wasreally intoJackson's belly, and one time Jackson used it to his advantage.(prompted by an anon on tumblr)





	i just come here for the view

**Author's Note:**

> wildly enough I don't know if I've ever done a 5+1 fic before this? double wildly this prompt is over a year old and I am so sorry I am a mess human being
> 
> done for an anon on tumblr! if you've got an ao3, feel free to let me know and I can officially dedicate it to you!!
> 
> it's also got a bonus '0' from before they're Together™ that I had started when I first got the prompt Rip lmao
> 
> title from the wombats' [Your Body Is A Weapon]() (and while looking for a title I found out that oh FUCK they have a new album out check that out yall)

(0.)  
He hadn't really noticed Jackson’s stomach until a client mentioned it; the guy cracks some bitter joke about how if they _were_ going to seduce his wife to see if she’d cheat, it should be Holland, because she’s not really into ‘the beer gut’ Jackson has going on. 

Jackson laughs it off, but it bothers Holland. It eats at him until they're halfway home, stopped at a red light, and he finally blurts out, “You don't have a beer gut.” 

Jackson gives him a confused laugh. 

“I know,” he says, glancing at Holland in the passenger’s seat. “It’s a Yoo-hoo gut." 

Holland cracks a smile at that, but it still… _Bothers_ him. Jackson’s gut is great. 

Fuck that guy. 

1.  
New house, bought outright so they can add a pool and do whatever else they want? Check.

Holly enrolled at her new school, feeling stable, has honestly told the both of them she really is more than fine with Jackson moving in? Check.

Surprisingly large shower that Holland is _absolutely_ gonna get fucked in? Uh, _check_.

"Come on," he whines, pulling at Jackson's open shirt. "We've got the time for it and it's totally big enough for two people," Holland continues. He leans closer, kisses Jackson the slow way that he likes that he almost never gets because Holland is always _too eager and too excited and too too too_. "I want you," he purrs -- tries to, anyway; he probably just sounds ridiculous dropping his voice into fake sexy, but at least the effort shows Jackson he's not lying.

Jackson sighs, mouth still mostly pressed to Holland's.

"Fine," he agrees, "but you're gonna slip and die."

Holland laughs and kisses him again, and again, and pulls him toward the bathroom. Jackson separates them for their own safety when they stumble over a threshold onto tile, and Holland is still giggly when he turns the water on and pulls the thing that redirects the water up to the showerhead.

" _We_ are gonna slip and die," Jackson corrects himself, but Holland is already half-naked, pulling socks off so he can get pants off.

Jackson follows his lead, shrugging off his open button-down and pulling off the plain shirt under it. He's going for his belt when he realizes Holland is staring.

"What?"

Holland's eyes shoot up, because he's definitely only looking at Jackson's face, and he swallows.

"What?" he asks back. "Nothing. Shut up. Shower sex."

He does indeed slip and bust his lip, but it's not before Jackson's second finger in him and Jackson's mouth on his makes him shoot off like a teenager, so it is _worth it_.

2.  
It is 98 degrees out, and there's no more avoiding it: _it is time to go to the pool._

Theirs still isn't finished yet, in the small backyard of their medium house, but it's getting there.

Three towels, a bottle of sunscreen, and a call to one of Holly's friends later, Jackson is driving them the five minutes or so to the local pool.

Holly is out of the car with a wave before he's even shifted out of gear, and they're both smiling as they watch her jump in with no hesitation.

"You wanna swim?" Holland asks. Public pools are kind of disgusting, and not ideal, but he may have bribed their overnight cleaner into going above and beyond when the temperature spiked and he knew the inevitable was soon approaching.

"Nah," Jackson says, even though he's already in big red swim trunks to fit the _family pool outing_ look they've all got going. "Won't stop you, though."

Holland snorts. Holly enacted a No Dad Swimming ban last Summer, because he'd embarrassed her in front of her friends with a cannonball that crammed most of his swim shorts up his ass, and he imagines it's probably still in effect.

"Can't," he says. "Holly Rule."

Jackson nods sagely; this is not the first time he has referenced one of the legendary and all-powerful _Holly Rules_.

"We could fool around in the back seat like teenagers," Jackson suggests, and the dry, sarcastic smile he turns to Holland is already met with something hopeful. "I'm _kidding_."

Holland scoffs and throws his arms up in the passenger seat, opening the door and getting out like it's part of his _disbelief, betrayal, and offense_ and not something he was about to do anyway.

"No fun allowed for Holland," he pretends to pout, gathering their pool stuff out of the back seat.

"Nope," Jackson agrees.

It's not terribly crowded, and they find an empty couple chairs in a corner that they go to drop their stuff at. Jackson waves at Holly so she knows where they are, and she waves back before plunging underwater again.

"Kid could be a damn fish," Holland mutters.

"She'd be a good fish," Jackson agrees again. "Very swim-y."

Holland is smiling at him, feeling kind of stupid and moony that he's lucky enough to have this man with him, at a _public pool_ , talking about his kid like she's _theirs_.

Then Jackson peels his shirt off.

Holland suddenly needs to lay back and start his tanning right now, this very second, without looking at his boyfriend or his very nice bear bod. That's what they call that now, right? A 'bear'?

"Don't you need sunscreen?" Jackson asks suspiciously.

He does, actually, because he will redden like a lobster within an hour or so without it. But now that would mean Jackson's big hands rubbing it into his skin, curving over his waist and his shoulders, and then he'd have to turn around and _face_ him while he did it, just smiling at Holland and being so damn _casual_ , and then he'd never be able to smell sunscreen again without a boner and a dreamy smile.

"No," he lies, voice too high. "I'm good."

Jackson frowns, but then he just shrugs.

"Your funeral, March," he says, then lays back on his chair the same way, sunscreen be damned. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Holland burns to a crisp, and Jackson catches Holland staring at him no less than four times in the three hours until Holly drags herself out of the water, exhausted, and says she's ready to go home.

The sunburn is _worth it._

3.  
"Why do you have one of my ads hidden in the closet?"

Holland is... _Very_ close to spitting out his orange juice.

Instead, he swallows it (casually), looks up at Jackson ( _so_ casually), and, casually, replies,

"No I don't? Shut up."

Jackson snorts.

"It was carefully folded in a shoebox," Jackson adds.

"Why were you snooping through my shoeboxes?" Holland asks, pointing his fork accusingly at him before he goes for more scrambled eggs.

"Because you're a grown man who keeps hiding the lube."

Mess be damned, Holland might fling some scrambled eggs at Jackson across the kitchen.

" _Shut up_ ," he hisses. If Holly's awake for school already, she could be scarred for life now. Great.

"She's still asleep," Jackson says, answering his unspoken concerns. He glances at the clock over the sink. "She's still got three minutes before she has to be up, she's not missing out on sleep."

Holland smiles, because yeah, she sure isn't, and Jackson joins him on the other side of the kitchen island-bar-thing they have. 

(It's definitely either an island or a bar. They have never pretend argued and written out lists on why Holland is right and it's a bar or Jackson is right and it's an island.)

"Really, though," he says, quieter, and rattles the paper in his hand.

Holland shrugs.

"I thought it'd be cool to show Holly when she's older," he admits. "Y'know. That's her second dad, Jackson Healy, Real Life Tough Guy."

Jackson smiles down at it. They're both imagining showing her; bringing out the newspaper ad one day when it's unearthed again and Holly's older, maybe 15 or 16, and them getting to laugh about it and tell her how they met, even if she knows most of it already.

"It's because my shirt's tight and I'm flexing, isn't it?" Jackson asks flatly.

"Not a fuckin' doubt," Holland laughs, and swipes the paper back from Jackson to go re-hide.

4.  
The first time Holland rode him, it was mostly because they were both exhausted and he was the only one of the two with enough energy to move, and even then, only barely; five bounces in and he'd ended up collapsed over Jackson's torso, moving enough to help Jackson fuck up into him, but not much otherwise. It had still been pleasant despite neither of them cleaning up until morning, and going through a very special new hell together because of it.

The next time, and most times after that, it's just selfish on Holland's part. Jackson _must_ know, he's a smart guy who can identify a pattern even when it's _not_ falling into his lap, but they have _not_ talked about the desperate way Holland always ends up rutting against him, barely hunched forward to rub on the upward curve of his stomach.

Eventually, Holland addresses it by grandly presenting Jackson a tiny Barbie comb with a note tied to it.

_Sorry for all the jizz in your happy trail! Love you._

5.  
It's one of those ridiculous things that's only supposed to happen in movies -- they have to stake out at a strip club and blend in while they wait for someone to maybe or maybe not show up.

Holland is three lapdances in and drunk on boobs when Jackson pulls him aside into a private booth and sits him down.

"What's up?" he whispers, suddenly sobered. "You see the guy?"

"No," Jackson says, unconcerned. "You just looked like you needed some time to cool down."

Holland laughs.

"Babe, we already covered this," he sighs, fond like he's secretly pleased he gets to go over it again. "I love you, I'm _yours_ , you are the other father of my child." He reaches up to take Jackson's hand, safe to do so with the curtain between them and the rest of the club. "No amount of pretty young lady nipples is going to change that."

"I know," Jackson says, sounding short not with Holland, but with himself. "Just... Remind me."

 _Remind me_. Holland knows that tone. That soft, needy voice that only comes out if Jackson is upset or really, _really_ worked up, or worse, _both_. That tone has gotten him into _trouble_.

He grins from ear to ear.

"Of course," he says softly, and brings Jackson's hand closer. 

He kisses his knuckles, and his palm, and up his wrist. Jackson steps closer as Holland needs more to kiss, bent over him in the booth so Holland's mouth can travel up his arm to his collar to his chest.

Jackson's wearing another button-down tonight, and Holland goes for the first button. He is _not_ wearing an undershirt, and Holland says a quick 'amen' under his breath.

"I love you," he repeats, soft against Jackson's throat.

He doesn't push Jackson's shirt off, because they _are_ still in a relatively public place, but he opens it and runs his hands under the cotton.

"I love how sensible and not thong-y your boxers are, and your hairy chest," he croons, directly into Jackson's chest hair, and Jackson's laugh makes his skin jump against Holland's lips. "And I -- "

Holland starts to give the rest of his torso the same treatment, but he cuts himself off with a laugh.

"You _know_ I love your stomach, come on," he snorts, then kisses down Jackson's center. "You just wanted me to tell you how hot and bothered you make me," Holland accuses, with a smile, and it's all fun and games until Jackson's fingers push into Holland's hair.

"Why don't you remind me what else you love about me?" Jackson says, in _the tone_.

Holland goes pale (they're in public) and then very, very red (they're _in public_ ), and then bites his lip to keep down all the profanity he wants to spill at the _thought_ of what Jackson is suggesting they do.

"Yeah?" Holland whispers, hands on Jackson's belt buckle, because he is _never_ up for this, and Holland wants to make sure they're both on the same level about it.

Jackson yanks Holland's face up, just enough to get Holland's blood pumping, and smiles back.

"Yeah."

+1  
They're arguing. Or they were, anyway, something about how he shouldn't be drinking and driving, how he shouldn't be drinking at _all_ , and Holland is -- he _knows_ , and then he can't stop, and then he's drinking to escape himself all over again.

The tears are already prickling at his eyes, and he's so glad Holly is staying at her friend's tonight, because he can already hear the hoarse _I know, I'm worthless, I know_ bubbling up his throat, but Jackson kisses him before they get there.

He must taste like brandy, and he winces away in shame but Jackson kisses him _harder_ , makes sure he knows this isn't about shutting him up, it's about getting positive enforcement into Holland's thick skull because God knows it'll never get in through his ears.

"I'm sorry," Holland's muttering, between kisses. "I'm trying," he mutters, like he does every time this argument happens, while Jackson leads him to their room. "I can do better, I _know_ I can," he mutters, more like a sob while Jackson lays him out on their bed, still reverently kissing his mouth and his scratchy stubble jaw.

"I know," Jackson whispers back. The fight is out of his voice -- regret, and apology, maybe, but no anger. 

These fights happen because they love each other and want each other to be happy, Holland reminds himself.

"I'm sorry," Holland says again.

"It's okay," Jackson sighs -- not out of annoyance or exasperation, but just because he's already decided tonight isn't a night to argue about this.

His thick thighs settle over Holland's hips, and that alone makes Holland smile again, shy and lopsided. They've talked about this; he'd never call himself a... A _chubby chaser_ , or anything like that, but the extra weight Jackson carries feels like what's always been missing from his life previously, even if Jackson isn't the biggest fan of it himself. Holland has agreed he'll try not to get too into the jiggling during sex if he can at least marvel at it in silence, and Jackson has agreed he'll try not to feel weird about just how into it Holland is when he inevitably catches him staring like an idiot.

Holland feels Jackson's weight shift over as he sits up, plush ass resting on his thighs now, too. Nice.

He opens his eyes to admire Jackson, and maybe get out another 'I'm sorry' and an 'I love you' before things get rolling in the direction they're headed, but Jackson pulls his shirt over his head and instead Holland sits there, dumbstruck, with his mouth open. His stomach looks even nicer from this angle, wide and soft, and he's close enough Holland could probably just bury his face in it if he wanted. _Nice._

Jackson grins.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he laughs, the smile on his face too amused to be cruel. "Pervert."

Jackson's right -- tonight is not an argument night.

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me [on tumblr](https://www.sandpapersnowman.tumblr.com)! where occasionally I reply to prompts and requests in a timely manner oop


End file.
